


and nothing can mar our perfection

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Series: Roman Pond [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:05:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clad in a dressing gown and slippers, the Doctor rummages through cabinets in the kitchen looking for twenty-fifth century Swiss chocolate, which River insists is the only chocolate that will do. The baby is having a craving, she says. He very much doubts their son is a connoisseur of chocolates from the womb. River, however, is another matter entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and nothing can mar our perfection

**Author's Note:**

> Fourth in my Roman Pond series. Utterly domestic fluff. Not even sorry.
> 
> Story title taken from The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger: 
> 
> “We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.”

Clad in a dressing gown and slippers, the Doctor rummages through cabinets in the kitchen looking for twenty-fifth century Swiss chocolate, which River insists is the only chocolate that will do. The baby is having a craving, she says. The Doctor snorts and mumbles to himself, tossing aside a package of crisps. He very much doubts their son is a connoisseur of chocolates from the womb. River, however, is another matter entirely.

 

“What do you think of Alexander?”

 

The Doctor pauses, picturing his wife sprawled across the sofa in the living room, her book of baby names propped up on her rounded belly, and feels a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I think your inner archaeologist is showing.”

 

He hears her sigh and the soft rustle of pages turning as he goes back to ransacking their cabinets. “We could call him August after my grandfather.”

 

A bag of flour tumbles from a shelf and thumps him on the head before dropping to the counter and upending white powder all over his dressing gown and the floor. The Doctor curses. Loudly.

 

River laughs and when he looks up, he finds her standing in the doorway, the book dangling from her fingers and one hand resting on the swell of her stomach. Her eyes are soft and her cheeks are flushed and honestly, he used to think all that talk about pregnant women glowing was rubbish but his wife is the epitome of pregnant radiance. Covered in flour, the Doctor swallows and simply stares.

 

“My love, if you can’t find the chocolate, we’ll just go out for some. No need to attempt making it yourself.” Her smile only widens when he glares at her and she steps forward – he very consciously does not think of it as a waddle or River will notice his amusement and slap him – to swipe a fingertip down the bridge of his nose, collecting a bit of flour and dusting it off on her shirt. “Now what about August?”

 

He sighs, snatching her hand when she brushes a bit more flour from his cheek, still looking far too amused for her own good. “Do we have to do this now?”

 

“Sweetie, he’ll be here before you know it.” She frowns. “I want to be prepared.”

 

The Doctor draws her close, scowling when the bump of her belly comes between them. As much as he enjoys the sight of his wife pregnant and glowing, he’s rather looking forward to feeling her against him again. “No one is ever prepared for a baby,” he says. “That’s the point of them – brilliant little bundles of pink that cause panic and confusion wherever they toddle.”

 

River glowers at him, smoothing a hand over her stomach and probably hoping he doesn’t notice her hand tremble. He hopes she’s too distracted by her own anxiety to notice his. It’s been a very long time since he’s played the part of a father, no matter how old hat he tries to pretend he is to soothe his wife. “Are you trying to make me feel better? Because you’re rubbish at it.”

 

The Doctor taps her nose, leaving a smudge of flour.

 

River swats him away but her eyes widen before she can retaliate, both hands dropping to her stomach. The Doctor feels a jolt of alarm, extending a hand toward her. “River? What’s -”

 

“The baby.” She laughs, grasping his outstretched hand as he struggles to breath again. She presses his palm flat against the curve of her belly and whispers, “He moved.”

 

A smile stretching suddenly over his face, the Doctor drops his gaze from his beaming wife to the hand she still holds pressed to her stomach and waits with more patience than he ever thought he contained. After a moment of absolute stillness, he feels it – the soft flutter against his palm, like a tiny foot. His eyes sting and he feels absolutely ridiculous – covered in flour and clad in a dressing gown, bent over River’s belly with a stupid grin on his face. But that little lad he’d met all those years ago in a back garden is in there right now, kicking him.

 

“Hello there,” he breathes, and feels another kick in response. He blinks up at River. “Bloody hell, he’s packing quite a wallop in that foot. Have you been teaching him judo when I’m not looking?”

 

“From the womb?”

 

He huffs at her dry, incredulous tone and straightens, keeping his hand on her stomach. “Don’t pretend it’s beyond the realm of possibility. You could find a way to do anything.”

 

River looks pleased, tangling her fingers with his and leaning up on her toes to kiss him. “So can you, my love. Even this.”

 

Between them, their growing child kicks again.

 

-

 

For all of his worrying, for every sleepless night remembering children long dead and every time he passed the nursery and wondered if he could ever look at his child and not think of the ones he’d lost, the Doctor finds it surprisingly easy to stare into the murky eyes of his newborn son and see only him. There are no ghosts lurking in his little face, nothing but a pointed nose and chin and an alarming amount of hair. He looks like his previous regeneration already, but better. A reminder that he has his River again and they made this rather magnificent being.

 

River rests beside him on the bed, tired but struggling to stay awake to watch him hold his son for the first time. His throat feels too tight to swallow as he cradles the lad to his chest and his nose tingles but he blinks rapidly and tells himself to get it together. Shifting the bundle in his arms, he peers at the small face peeking at him through the swathe of blankets and says, “Not bad, is he?”

 

River laughs softly, reaching out a sluggish hand to stroke the top of the boy’s head. “Think we should keep him then?”

 

The Doctor shrugs, unable to tear his eyes from long lashes and a wriggling mouth. “We could give it a go, I suppose. What have we got to lose?”

 

“Oh good,” River sighs, smiling sleepily as she lets her hand drop from the baby’s head to squeeze the Doctor’s knee. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

“You’re exhausted. Sleep,” he says quietly, and he wants to take her hand but he doesn’t quite trust himself not to drop the baby if he tries to hold him with only one. “I promise not to give him away before you wake up.”

 

River shakes her head stubbornly. “He still hasn’t got a name, sweetie.”

 

One of the baby’s arms flails out of his blanket and the Doctor risks offering him a pinky, quietly delighted when the boy latches on with enthusiasm and attempts to stick the digit in his mouth. With great effort, he turns from the sight of his son and looks at his sleepy, brilliant wife. “You’ve known since you held him and looked at his face.”

 

She stares at him. “How did you -”

 

“Three hundred years of marriage.” He smirks, feeling a little smug. “Well? Going to tell me what it is?”

 

Stroking a hand up his knee and finding their son’s little foot through his blanket, River clasps a hand around it and smiles. “Roman.”

 

“Roman.” Feeling a surprised smile curl his mouth, the Doctor says, “The Centurion would be pleased.”

 

“You think?”

 

River looks at him hopefully and he nods, grasping her hand to kiss the back of it. “It’s perfect, dear. Now sleep.”

 

“Don’t boss me about, old man,” she says, snuggling into her pillow, her hand still curled around his.

 

“Yes, dear.” Hiding a smile, he turns back to his son. His little Roman. “Roman Pond.”

 

The lad yawns in reply and the Doctor stares, enthralled.

 

“My boys,” River murmurs fondly, and sleeps.

 

-

 

At first, he’d thought it was just colic – or whatever the human/Time Lord hybrid equivalent of the ailment happened to be. Roman wailed and cried and fussed endlessly, no matter how the Doctor cajoled and paced and made ridiculous faces to soothe him. And then he notices that the boy never so much as makes a peep when River holds him.

 

He contemplates simply using a psychic link to put Roman to sleep but he can’t sleep all the time and honestly, it feels a bit like cheating. River isn’t cheating. She’s just better at everything than he is – even being a damn parent. So the Doctor hovers on the edge of his son’s crib and hides his face with his hands, hoping a game of peek-a-boo will distract the lad from screaming. His face is a troubling red and the Doctor is starting to fear he’ll pass out if he doesn’t draw a breath soon.

 

“Come on, lad. Stop being so ruddy dramatic and just -” He reaches into the crib, giving up the game as a lost cause, but Roman shrieks and he quickly draws back again, scowling. “What do you want?!”

 

“Sweetie?”

 

He hates how relieved he is to hear River padding down the hall and he turns away from the crib, slouching against the wall to watch as his wife hurries into the room and picks up the wailing tyke. Eyes narrowed, the Doctor watches her cradle Roman to her chest and shush him softly, rocking him back and forth in her arms. The lad quiets almost immediately, sniffling into her hair.

 

The Doctor growls. “What are you doing that I’m not?”

 

River turns with a frown, stroking a hand up and down Roman’s back. “What do you mean?”

 

“He sodding well adores you -”

 

“Of course he does, I’m his mummy.”

 

“Well I’m his bloody father -”

 

“Shh.” River glances at their son and the Doctor drops his gaze to find the boy nearly asleep, cuddled snugly against her. Even as exasperated and wounded as he is, the sight does something soppy and pleasant to his hearts. “And stop cursing in front of him.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “He can’t understand a word I’m saying.”

 

“Yes, but one day he will,” River snaps. “And I don’t want a salty-mouthed toddler.”

 

“You like my salty mouth,” he insists, raising an eyebrow at her.

 

River bites back a smile, turning to sway with Roman back toward his crib. “Not the point, sweetie.”

 

“No, it isn’t.” The Doctor watches longingly as Roman clutches River’s hair and snuffles sleepily against her breast. “The point is my own son hates me.”

 

River stifles a snort of laughter against the top of the baby’s head and eyes him incredulously. “Sweetie, Roman loves you.”

 

The Doctor scoffs, glowering at a stuffed Sirulian on the shelf beside him. “Then why does he scream bloody murder when I hold him?”

 

“Have you tried asking him?”

 

Blinking in surprise, the Doctor lifts his gaze to River and finds her staring skeptically back at him, her eyes narrowed but her smile soft and amused, like he’s a particularly stubborn child she needs to coax into using his words instead of a tantrum. He bristles, knowing it isn’t far from the truth.

 

“Well?”

 

He clears his throat and studies his boots. “It… hadn’t occurred to me.”

 

“Something didn’t occur to the cleverest man in the universe?” River hums, sounding horridly smug and he might hate her if he didn’t love her so terribly much. “Fancy that.”

 

“Sod off.”

 

River smirks, shifting Roman to face him, his chubby legs dangling over her arm. The boy blinks at the Doctor sleepily. “Go on then.”

 

The Doctor sighs through his teeth, eyes his wife unhappily for a moment, and asks. The answer he receives from his gurgling tyke makes him snort and blink away the relieved sting in his eyes. “He hates my cologne.”

 

River clears her throat primly and hides a smile in a soft kiss against her son’s head. “Join the club, my darling,” she murmurs.

 

The Doctor doesn’t even have the will to scowl properly, his grin of relief far too wide. His son doesn’t hate him. River isn’t better at this parenting rubbish than he is. Well, she might be. But his son doesn’t hate him. The Doctor surges forward and takes River’s face in his hands, kissing her with messy, giddy enthusiasm. And then he ducks and presses his lips to Roman’s forehead, dodging the boy’s happy, wayward fist.

 

And then he turns and saunters away.

 

Sounding a bit breathless and disappointed, River calls after him, “Where are you going?”

 

Smirking, the Doctor calls over his shoulder, “To wash this shite off.”

 

-

 

“Say Daddy.” Roman squirms, reaching with an unhappy cry for the bottle of milk the Doctor holds aloft. He shakes it enticingly and says again, “Daddy. Come on lad, you’re part Time Lord. You can manage two syllables.”

 

“Sweetie, stop antagonizing our son.”

 

“He can do this!”

 

“Of course he can.” River leans in and plucks the bottle from him, handing it to their fussy little boy. “But denying him sustenance until he does is hardly the best route.”

 

The Doctor scowls, watching Roman clasp chubby fists around the bottle and bring it to his mouth, sucking greedily. “Mummy’s boy,” he grumbles.

 

Roman drops the bottle from his mouth with a little squeal, kicking his feet. “Mummy!”

 

Jaw dropping, the Doctor stares.

 

Behind him, even River stops shuffling through lecture notes to gape at their son, pen and papers clutched in her hands. She blinks quickly and gives a trembling, wobbly smile, her eyes suspiciously bright. “What did he just say?”

 

“Nothing!” The Doctor says, waving her away and leaning in close to Roman. “Daddy, lad. Come on. Da-”

 

“Mummy!”

 

“No, _no_ , say Daddy!”

 

Roman chucks his bottle at him and claps his little hands. “Mummy!”

 

Lecture notes forgotten, River scoops up the boy and clutches him to her, beaming. “That’s right, darling,” she says, kissing Roman’s pink, round little cheeks with a bright laugh. “Mummy’s here. What a smart little Time Lord we’ve got, hmm?”

 

“Smart?” The Doctor huffs. “I’ve been repeating the word Daddy for a sodding hour-”

 

“And he still managed to tune you out entirely. Took me years to hone that skill.”

 

River looks smug and Roman gurgles, clapping a tiny hand against her cheek and repeating, “Mummy.”

 

The Doctor sighs.

 

-

 

Sneaking about before dawn is a feat all by itself when one lives with the woman trained to track his every move since birth but sneaking about before dawn with a clumsy toddler determined to help is another matter entirely. For such a small mite, Roman makes an awful lot of noise.

 

“Daddy, can we make -”

 

“Shh, quiet, lad. Don’t want to wake Mummy, do we?”

 

Eyes wide, Roman shakes his head and tiptoes closer, lowering his voice. The Doctor hides a smile and listens patiently as the boy rattles off a list of items he wants to make River for her Mother’s Day breakfast. He insists on being in charge of the pancakes and the Doctor does his best not to hover while the boy gathers the proper ingredients.

 

His son is all limbs, rather like the Doctor’s last regeneration, and it comes as no surprise when he upends a whole sack of flour onto the floor. A cloud of white hovers around them in the kitchen and the Doctor coughs, waving a hand in front of his face and eyeing his son with a frown he struggles to maintain. Roman stares at the mess guiltily and mumbles, “Oops.”

 

The Doctor blinks, staring at his son covered in flour, and for a moment he can only think of the first time he’d felt Roman kick, in this very kitchen – also covered in flour. Mouth twitching and eyes crinkling in amusement, the Doctor stoops to swipe flour out of the boy’s hair and says, “Why don’t you pick out the strawberries?” Roman brightens at that and the Doctor swats playfully at him as he scurries off. “And don’t eat them all, little beastie.”

 

Roman giggles, trips halfway to the refrigerator, and stumbles back to his feet again, almost crashing into the door. The Doctor rolls his eyes fondly and rises to his feet, stepping over the mess on the floor. There are eggs and pancakes to make after all.

 

They’re both still covered in flour when breakfast is ready, with just a bit of glitter in their hair from the homemade card Roman had insisted on. The Doctor is sure River is already aware of what they’re doing, since the boy can’t quite manage to keep his excited giggles in check. He bounces impatiently ahead of the Doctor, clutching his glitter-covered card in one hand as he approaches the door to their bedroom.

 

“Wake up, Mummy!” He bellows, and charges into the room.

 

Balancing the breakfast tray, the Doctor snorts. Well, if she hadn’t been awake before, she certainly is now. And sure enough, when he reaches the doorway of their bedroom, he finds River wide awake and smiling as Roman clambers into her lap and shoves the card in her face, glitter raining down on them both. “Well isn’t this a lovely surprise,” she says, winking at the Doctor. “What’s all this for?”

 

“For your happy day, Mummy.” Roman snuggles into her side and succeeds in covering their blanket and River’s nightie in flour. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind.

 

“Mother’s Day, lad,” the Doctor corrects, settling the tray onto the bed.

 

River grins broadly up at him and he can’t quite resist trailing a finger down the bridge of her nose and leaving a smudge of flour. She still looks just as radiant and he thinks perhaps it hadn’t been the pregnancy at all. Perhaps it had just been River.

 

“My boys,” she murmurs, and lets Roman steal a pancake.

 

The Doctor ignores the food and steals a kiss instead.


End file.
